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She sensed that the kiss was an end unto itself, that he had no further agenda—not at this moment, anyway. She could kiss him in return and he wouldn’t try to tear off her clothes or pin her against the car. Leaning into him a little, she felt the warmth of his body, enjoyed the closeness. It was she who lightly teased him with her tongue, asking for more. He gave it, not plunging deep but teasing in return as they learned each other’s taste and feel, how their mouths fit together. Then he released her lips, smiled, and wiped his thumb across her mouth before opening the car door and letting her slide inside.
“Where to now?” he asked as he got in the car. “Back to Paris?”
“Yes,” she said, with obvious regret. The day had been a welcome escape, but it was almost at an end. She had decided something important, however: Swain couldn’t be CIA, in any capacity, because she was still alive. It was always a bonus if, at the end of a date, the guy didn’t kill you.
20
Late that afternoon, Georges Blanc received another call from Damone Nervi. He knew who was calling and his stomach tightened with dread. He was in his car, so he wasn’t in danger of being overheard, which was a small blessing and the only one he’d found so far in this situation. He pulled to the side of the road and answered the call.
Damone’s tone was very even. “I am a more reasonable man than my brother. I am not, however, one who can be safely ignored. Do you have the information I requested?”
“Yes, but—” Blanc hesitated, and took the plunge. “My advice, my hope, is that you do not use this number.”
“Why is that?”
To Blanc’s relief, Damone sounded more curious than angry. He took a deep breath. Maybe there was hope. “There is only one way you could get this number, and that is if someone in the American CIA gave it out. This man you want to call works for them. Do you think he won’t wonder how you came to have his mobile phone number? Do you think he is, perhaps, so stupid he cannot add two and two? The question you must ask yourself is if he is loyal to his employers, will he not report this to his superiors? And will they not investigate? If you use this number, monsieur, you may very well destroy both my contact and me.”
“I see.” The connection was silent for a moment as Damone considered all of the ramifications. After a moment he said, “Rodrigo is impatient; I think it’s best if he doesn’t know this. Sometimes his desire for action can outweigh prudence. I will tell him that this person was to rent a mobile phone here, and hasn’t contacted anyone yet.”
“Thank you, monsieur. Thank you.” Blanc closed his eyes in relief.
“But,” Damone said, “it now occurs to me that you owe me a favor.”
Blanc was reminded that, reasonable or not, Damone was still a Nervi, and therefore dangerous. Tension knotted his stomach again. What else could he do except agree? “Yes,” he said heavily.
“This is private. There’s something I want you to do for me, something you can never tell anyone. The lives of your children depend on it.”
Tears burned Blanc’s eyes and he rubbed them away. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he might faint. He had never made the error of underestimating the brutality of which the Nervis were capable. “I understand. What is it I am to do?”
They were near the hotel when Swain said, “Let me take you home. You shouldn’t have to take the Metro when you’re so much safer in a car no one recognizes.”
Lily hesitated, instinctively not wanting to disclose the location of her apartment. “I took the Metro this morning,” she pointed out. “The trains are faster, anyway.” She had
put her hair up under a cloche and worn sunglasses, as he’d suggested, just in case Rodrigo had people watching the train stations. There were a lot of stations in Paris; covering them would require a lot of manpower, but of course Rodrigo wouldn’t have to supply the men. With his influence, he could have others do the job.
“Yeah, but this morning the sun was shining, and now it’s dark. The sunglasses will make you conspicuous.” He grinned. “Plus I want to check out your bed and make sure it’s big enough for me.”
She rolled her eyes. One kiss and he expected her to fall into bed with him? She enjoyed kissing him, but she had merely been charmed, not rendered stupid. “It isn’t,” she said, “so there’s no point in you seeing it.”
“That depends. Is it narrow, or short? If it’s just narrow that’s no problem, because we’ll be double-decker anyway. But if it’s a short bed, I’ll have to rethink my infatuation with you, because there’s something wrong with a woman who doesn’t buy a bed long enough for a man to stretch out his legs.”
“It’s both,” she said, trying to control a giggle. She hadn’t giggled since she was eighteen, but one was building in her throat. “Short and narrow. I bought it from a convent.”
“Nuns sell their beds?”
“They had a huge garage sale as a fund-raiser.”
He threw back his head and laughed, not at all put out by her refusal. All of his lines and proposals were so outrageous she thought he must be at least half-joking, though if she took him up on any of them, like most men he’d jump at the opportunity to have sex.
He’d distracted her from his original suggestion, but she hadn’t forgotten it. She had to weigh her natural caution about divulging the location of her apartment against the risk of taking the Metro. Sometimes she wouldn’t be able to avoid taking the train, but why push her luck if she didn’t have to? What it came down to was, who did she think was more of a danger to her, Swain or Rodrigo? No contest there. So far, Swain had been solidly on her side, even though he didn’t have a compelling reason for helping her other than boredom and wanting to sleep with her. “I live in Montmartre,” she said. “It’s out of your way.”
He shrugged. “So what?”
If he didn’t care, why should she? The safety factor was the only reason to let him drive her, because the trains were a much more convenient way of getting around Paris, but it was a big reason.
She gave him directions and settled back in her seat; let him worry about fighting the traffic. He did it with his usual verve, shouted insults, and assorted gestures. He got a little too much into the spirit of things, actually accelerating once when a group of tourists tried to cross a street in front of him. Because this was Paris, naturally the car beside him speeded up, too. They barreled down on a portly middle-aged woman, and Lily gasped in horror. The woman’s eyes bugged out as the two cars bore down on her.
“Shit!” Swain yelled. “You son of a bitch!” He swerved sharply toward the car beside them, and its panicked driver jerked the steering wheel to the left as he slammed on his brakes. Swain downshifted into a lower gear and shot into the gap between the pedestrian and the fishtailing car, even as the woman scrambled to get back on the curb.
